


A Year to the Day

by Cameo (CameoSF)



Category: Sleepy Hollow (1999)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 07:33:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1461043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CameoSF/pseuds/Cameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ichabod is summoned back to Sleepy Hollow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Year to the Day

# A Year to the Day

_It was completely dark, darker than a moonless night, darker than a windowless cellar. Ichabod lay perfectly still, afraid to breathe. Although he could neither see nor hear anything, he knew there was someone in the blackness with him, someone who was approaching, kneeling beside him. He gasped when large, cold hands settled on his shoulders, only then realizing that he was naked. The hands stroked downward, caressing him, making Ichabod shudder against his will. They paused on his hips, two thumbs drawing slow circles on his skin, moving ever closer to their target. To his dismay, Ichabod felt his cock rise to meet their touch. When the unknown hands suddenly grasped his eager member, Ichabod cried out, climaxing with enough force to wake himself up._

 

"I received a letter from Sleepy Hollow today," Katrina remarked that evening at dinner. It was Tuesday, one of the days Ichabod customarily dined at his fiancee’s townhouse. During the course of their eleven-month engagement, they'd established many such routines.

"And how is everyone?" Ichabod inquired politely. Young Masbath paused while clearing the table, eager to hear word of his birthplace.

"They are well," Katrina assured them both. "But there is talk of the Horseman again. He has been seen of a night, riding through the village." She waited for some response, but Ichabod had frozen, as had the boy. "He is said to linger outside my father's house as if awaiting something. Then he returns to the Western Woods."

Ichabod cleared his throat. "No one has been harmed then?"

"No. But they fear to leave their homes after dusk." Her dark eyes were wide with concern. "They have requested your presence there, to banish the demon once and for all."

"Mine?" The query came out at a slightly higher pitch than Ichabod intended, so he tried again. "They think I can banish this creature a second time?"

"It was you who defeated it last year."

"Perhaps it was I who fathomed its reason for killing certain villagers, but it was Lady Van Tassel who brought about its defeat. If defeat it was," he muttered, remembering the lady's end. Being buried alive was not a pleasant way to go.

Katrina did not comment on her stepmother's demise. Instead she stretched out one delicate hand to clasp Ichabod's fingers and gazed earnestly into his eyes. "They need you, my dear."

Ichabod had never been able to resist her, and he knew she knew it. Sleepy Hollow was the last place he wanted to go, but between her pleas and his own sense of duty he had no choice. It was a job unfinished, and it was up to him to see it through.

"All right. I will leave on Friday," he declared, and was rewarded with a radiant smile. "I will go alone," he added before either she or the boy could volunteer to accompany him. "You shall both stay here where it is safe." Upon second thought, he rephrased that, since 'here' was New York City, where crimes multiplied by the day. "Where you are safe from supernatural forces."

Katrina nodded with perfect trust and unusual docility. "I will work a charm before you go, for your protection."

As leery as he wasof her magical skills, Ichabod did not turn it down. He suspected he would need all the protection he could get on this trip.

 

He set forth Friday noontime after taking indefinite leave from his police work. There was no telling how long he'd be away; the ride to Sleepy Hollow would take more than two days in itself, and once there, he had no delusions that ridding the area of the Horseman would be easy. At least he wouldn't waste time disbelieving the villagers' tales, as he had the previous year.

The Horseman, or the Hessian as he'd been known when he was a living, breathing mercenary, had been killed over twenty years earlier. His body had been buried in the woods outside Sleepy Hollow, but his head had gone missing until it was revealed to be in the second Lady Van Tassel's possession. Through it and her witchery she had forced the Horseman's body to rise and kill many of the villagers in an attempt to regain the land her family had lost decades before. Ichabod had been sent from New York City by his superiors, partly to aid the fearful villagers, partly as a test of the constable’s many clue-deducing inventions. With the assistance of Katrina and the orphaned Masbath, Ichabod had restored the Horseman's head to his body, which enabled the Hessian to get revenge on the witch. It also allowed him to take full corporeal form: the image of the head transforming from desiccated skull to flesh and skin and hair was one Ichabod would never forget.

Shortly after these events, Ichabod, Katrina, and young Masbeth had headed for the City, the former to resume his criminalist career, the latter two to start new lives. Within a month Ichabod and Katrina were betrothed, but they agreed upon a long engagement, reasoning that they could wait till the former won his much-deserved promotion. In the meantime, Katrina had taken a house with young Masbath to serve her, while Ichabod returned to his own modest flat. In many ways, his life had reverted to normal. The only odd note were the occasional dreams he began having, which, try as he might, he couldn't relate to anticipation over his upcoming marriage. As much as he loved Katrina, she really had nothing to do with his nocturnal imaginings.

 

Sleepy Hollow looked no different than when he'd left it, although familiar faces were few. The new magistrate was named Knickerbocker, a fellow maybe twice Ichabod's age, who had come to the village from a town further north. He'd purchased the Van Tassel manor and, as Ichabod discovered when he accepted the man's invitation to stay with him, had installed his wife and eight children there. They made the large house seem a lot smaller.

"How long has the Horseman been back?" Ichabod inquired over a rather noisy evening meal. All of the offspring were present, three of them too young to feed themselves. He found himself missing the quiet charm and elegance of Katrina's table. "Does he ride every night?"

"He was first sighted about ten days ago, on All Hallows Eve," Knickerbocker said, absently bouncing a small boy on his knee. "A year to the day he was thought to have been permanently sent to hell. At first we believed it was a joke or an overly fanciful imagination. But since then we have all seen him. He rides at midnight, enters the village by way of the bridge, comes directly to this house, and waits outside. It is quite unnerving, I can tell you. After a few hours he returns the way he came."

Ichabod frowned, at a loss to explain the Horseman's motivations in visiting the manor. He'd killed Baltus Van Tassel, and with his daughter's move to the city, no other members of that family resided there. "Has anyone approached him?"

"Good heavens, no. That is why we sent for you."

"Do you know whether the ground where he is buried has been disturbed? If his head has been taken again--"

Knickerbocker grimaced. "I assure you, his head is present on his shoulders. The look in his eyes is one I will carry to my own grave."

A thought occurred to Ichabod. "How can you be certain it is the Hessian? No one in the village, to my knowledge, has ever seen the man’s face."

"If you had seen him, you would have no doubts," the magistrate assured him. At the other end of the table, his wife nodded avidly. "Besides, he rides the horse Daredevil, brings the fog with him, and vanishes into the Western Woods. What else can he be but demon?"

Ichabod flashed back to the first time he'd heard of the Horseman's antics, and he barely repressed a shudder. He'd hoped to never be faced with such a macabre adversary again.

"You must be exhausted," Knickerbocker suddenly deduced. "It is early yet; there is time for you to get some rest before midnight. Let me show you to your room."

Ichabod followed the man upstairs gratefully. The coach ride had been too bumpy to allow for much sleep, and he wanted to be on his toes when he confronted the equestrian apparition. To his delight, the room assigned him was the same one he'd occupied on his previous visit. It was small, squeezed in under the eaves, but it was where Katrina had first come to care for him, and for that reason alone it would always be special.

That sentiment lasted all of five minutes, the time it took for Ichabod to realize that the room next door now served as the nursery. He could not fall asleep with at least two babies crying and what sounded like the other half dozen little Knickerbockers stomping around in an endless parade.

After an hour, he gave up. It was only nine o'clock; he could return to the village and take a room at the inn, get some real sleep, and still be back at the manor by midnight. Mind made up, he repacked his case and slipped out of the house.

At first he enjoyed the silence of the lonely walk towards town. There was a bright harvest moon, and the first chill of winter had yet to settle on the land. Ignoring the mist that drifted slowly around him, Ichabod decided to use the time to clear his head, the better to focus on what awaited him.

He still had no clue what could have aroused the Horseman after a year's absence. As far as he knew, the phantom would never have risen at all if not for the machinations of the second Lady Van Tassel, but she was certainly dead, as were all her blood kin. Whatever magic had disturbed the Hessian's slumber had to be powerful, and Ichabod was not sure of his ability to combat it. Katrina's spells were based on white magic, as his own mother's had been, and while Ichabod tolerated them, he preferred to use less arcane means to solve his cases. He'd brought several of his evidence-gathering inventions along on this trip, although he wasn't sure how useful they'd be in communicating with a ghost. They might however be able to determine where all this mist was coming from…

Ichabod missed a step as he recognized the fog surrounding him: it was the unnatural haze that had always accompanied the Horseman's appearances. As he stood there in shock, Ichabod heard hoofbeats in the distance, coming steadily closer. Dropping his case, he took off as fast as his shaking legs would carry him, but he knew he'd never reach the village in time. When he risked a glance over his shoulder, his fears were realized: the massive black steed known as Daredevil was bearing down on him, its rider reaching out one long arm as if to scoop him up. Ichabod put on a burst of speed, tripped over a root, and knew no more.

 

_It was completely dark, darker than a moonless night, darker than a windowless cellar. Ichabod lay perfectly still, afraid to breathe. Although he could neither see nor hear anything, he knew there was someone in the blackness with him, someone who was approaching…_

Only he wasn't approaching; the footsteps were moving away from him, and when they halted, a flint was struck. The low flame it produced was guided to a rough-hewn fireplace, where kindling immediately caught, lighting up that end of a small chamber. Ichabod could not see his companion clearly, just that he bore a man's shape. When he rose, he carried a candle, but kept one hand between it and his face.

"Who are you, sir?" Ichabod demanded, sitting up. He was still low to the ground; what he'd mistaken for a bed was in fact an unevenly stuffed mattress resting on the dirt. Goose feathers jabbed at him through the thin linen covering. "Where are we, and how did I get here?"

The man came forward to crouch before him, holding the candle high but ensuring his face remained in shadow. "You fell. On the road," he said softly.

"Oh." Ichabod recalled the desperate chase. He'd evidently escaped the Horseman, perhaps thanks to this man. "Did you see anything… strange… when I fell?"

"Strange?" The more he spoke, the more the man's accent became apparent. He sounded European, although Ichabod needed to hear more to determine his exact country of origin.

"Yes, such as a horseman?"

"A horseman?" Now the man seemed amused.

Ichabod was losing patience. He looked around the room, expecting to see the usual rustic furnishings, but there was nothing besides a chest in one corner, a wooden cask, and piles of firewood and rags. Puzzled, he peered deeper, disconcerted to see not plank walls, but worn rock. "Are we in a cave?"

"Of sorts," the man agreed.

The ceiling too was rock. Ichabod strained to make out an opening in the walls, but they appeared to be solid on all four sides. "Where is the door?"

"What is your name?" the stranger asked, and Ichabod realized he still commanded the man's full attention.

"I am Constable Ichabod Crane of New York City. May I ask yours?"

"I am Gregor."

"German?" That surprised Ichabod, who'd been under the impression the entire region was Dutch. He noticed now that the man wore a uniform, but its insignia was unknown to him. "Do you live in the Hollow?"

"Not anymore."

"Sir, I appreciate your assistance on the road, if in fact that is how I came to be here." As he spoke, Ichabod looked around again. This time his curiosity was caught by the collection of rags near the fireplace. They were somehow familiar. "But I have a commitment tonight." He paused. "It is still night, is it not?"

"Yes."

"Then I must be on my way…" As he gazed at the rags, their shape began to come clear. Ichabod sat up straighter, calculating his chances of eluding his companion in what could only be the Horseman's own domain. His breathing was speeding up so that he feared he would hyperventilate himself into unconsciousness before he could even attempt to escape. "If you will just point out the doorway--"

"You must calm yourself," the man admonished, making no move to touch him.

"Are you… Who are you?"

"You know who I am," the Hessian said. "You were there, when I was made whole. You fought the witch."

"I… She was responsible for several deaths, and it was my job to…" He swallowed, glancing at the rags again. It had certainly not been his job to consign her to such a fate.

"You helped me regain control of my soul."

The man finally lowered the candle, allowing Ichabod to see him clearly. It was the face he remembered from that dreadful night, when the phantom had re-won its head. The long, shaggy hair, the wild eyes, the teeth filed to sharp points were all there, but now they were discoursing with him as if they'd never been detached. Ichabod quietly lay back on the lumpy mattress and fainted.

 

Little had changed when he awoke, except his case sat where the pile of rags and bones had been before. The Hessian was once again kneeling beside the fireplace, slowly feeding it small branches. The case had not been there earlier, so Ichabod assumed the creature had a method of exiting and entering the chamber at will, a method that his guest was not privy to.

He cleared his throat and sat up again, determined this time to stay conscious. Since he was still alive, there must have been a purpose for his being brought here. The fact that the Horseman was capable of and willing to carry on a conversation was an encouraging sign. "May I have some water?"

The Hessian immediately filled a tankard from the cask and carried it over. "Are you hungry?"

"No, thank you." Ichabod drank carefully, but though earthy, the water was fresh and cold. A thought struck him. "Do you eat and drink?"

"No. My body has been dead for a long time."

"And your spirit at rest, or so we believed, once the witch was no more. Why do you ride again?"

"I was not ready to rest. The witch denied me peace for too many years, so I denied her the same. In the end, we made a bargain - I would let her die and she would let me live." The man sat down opposite Ichabod, his gaze intense. Ichabod tried not to shrink away. "For every year my body suffered in purgatory due to her deceit, I will have one more year of existence on this earth. My only restrictions are that I can travel but a half night's ride from this spot, and I cannot harm a living soul."

"But why would you want to continue this existence?" Ichabod exclaimed. "You have nothing here. When you lived, you were hated and feared. The people of Sleepy Hollow will never accept you."

"They mean nothing to me."

"Then I repeat, why do you ride again?"

"When you were here before, I sensed the magic in you. Without you, I might never have regained my head. I remembered that when I was given my life back. My freedom. You are not from this place, but of all the people in the world, you are the one I wanted." The Hessian smiled, and while Ichabod had expected it to be a grisly sight, in fact the expression softened the awfulness of his features. "As your magic called to me, I knew mine would call to you. I was certain that if I rode again, you would come."

"Why me?" Ichabod winced when his voice cracked.

"The witch was not to my taste," the other said. For a horrible moment Ichabod thought he meant it literally, and all the blood drained from his face. Then the Hessian placed one large hand on Ichabod's thigh, and the color returned even faster than it had withdrawn. There was no mistaking his meaning now. "You are."

"I am?" Ichabod squeaked. He scrambling backward on the mattress. Unfortunately, it wasn't wide enough to avoid that icy touch. "I mean, I am engaged to be married. To Katrina Van Tassel."

"The fair-haired girl from the manor?" The Hessian did not seem dismayed by this news, nor by Ichabod's efforts to get away from him. "She is not here."

"No, I left her in New York City, but she awaits my return. That is where I live. I am a policeman there. In New York City."

"Why did you come here then?"

"I thought I could rid the village of… of you, once and for all."

The man smiled again. "You can."

"How?" Ichabod felt himself blush even more. The hand on his leg was slowly stroking its way upward, and to his mortification, another part of his body was striving to greet it, evidently mistaking this encounter for one of his dreams. He shifted again, only to have his back meet the rock wall.

The Hessian leaned forward, his moves deliberate and focused but not entirely threatening. "If you stay with me here, I will not ride."

"Stay? Here? For years?"

By now both the Hessian's hands were near Ichabod's waist, and Ichabod could not pretend he wasn't hard. He grasped at the larger man's upper arms, but rather than push him away, all he succeeded in doing was enabling the other to embrace him with one of them, while his free hand unbuttoned Ichabod's breeches. Ichabod's own hands flapped around uselessly, too timid to light on the man's shoulders, and too confused to fight further.

When the Hessian lowered his mouth to Ichabod's throat, the latter cried out, but only cool lips touched his skin, not jagged teeth. To Ichabod's bewilderment, the kiss was gentle, almost affectionate. The lips began to warm as it went on, till the man was all but nuzzling him. Elsewhere, his hand crept inside Ichabod's breeches without resistance and began to stroke him with the same tender care, till Ichabod stiffened and came with a gasp. He remained limply in the Hessian's arms, unable to watch but equally unable to ignore as the man took care of his own needs.

"You are very much to my taste," the Hessian confirmed at last, laying Ichabod back on the mattress. He used a scrap of cloth to clean them both, then began helping Ichabod out of his clothing as if he were a child. He made no further move to be intimate with him, which was a relief since Ichabod's brain cells were not equal to dealing with another onslaught just then. He was barely aware of the man spreading a blanket over him before he'd sunk into welcome sleep.

 

_It was completely dark, darker than a moonless night, darker than a windowless cellar. Ichabod lay perfectly still, afraid to breathe. Although he could neither see nor hear anything, he knew there was someone in the blackness with him, someone who…_

Someone who was apparently in bed with him. As he waited for his wits to fully return, Ichabod prodded his pillow, unsurprised when it moved. It was shaped like an arm, and it was attached to a body - and there Ichabod's memory stepped in. He sat up straight in shock, recalling what had happened, what he had let happen, the night before. He felt hung over despite having had not a drop of liquor. Holding his head, he moaned aloud.

"Are you unwell?" a now familiar voice inquired from beside him.

"Decidedly," Ichabod murmured. He heard a flint strike, and a candle was lit. When he lowered his hands, Ichabod could see by its dim glow that the Hessian was eyeing him in concern. This morning, if morning it was, the man's visage was not nearly as alarming. That lessened Ichabod’s fear, but increased his indignation. “How can you claim you want me now? A year ago you put a sword through me!”

“I was not trying to kill you.”

“No, you were trying to kill my dearest Katrina!”

“It was not my will.”

Ichabod had to concede that. The wound he’d suffered had done no serious damage either, thanks to the Hessian’s accursed sword that cauterized even as it sliced. All he had to show for his injury was a pale scar on his shoulder. It was hardly worth mentioning when compared to the many battle mementos the other must carry.

This only reminded him of what the man had been both before and after his death: an angry and chillingly efficient killing machine. Reluctant or not, he’d nearly destroyed Ichabod’s future with the woman he loved.

His backbone straightened. "I cannot stay here. I cannot… be what you want."

The man did not respond verbally, just rose to his feet and left the cave. It appeared to Ichabod as if he walked right through the wall, leaving Ichabod there to ponder his situation in solitude.

 

The Hessian did not return for several hours. In that time, Ichabod pulled himself together enough to get dressed and check his case to see whether anything was missing. He also investigated the cave from end to end and rifled through the chest. The former offered no opening that he could find other than the fireplace, which was much too narrow for a person to squeeze into. The latter contained an unexpected cache of food staples, candles, blankets, and other things a living person might need in an underground cave. That, the cask of fresh water, the bed, even the arrival of Ichabod’s personal belongings, told him how sincere the Hessian was in his intentions: certainly those items had been gathered there solely for his guest's comfort.

Finally there was nothing to do but think. Ichabod sank down on the mattress and closed his eyes, trying to comprehend how he'd allowed the events of the previous night to occur. Admittedly the Hessian had reminded him of his dream-lover, and admittedly that dream-lover was the only one Ichabod had. While his daytime fancies were all about his beautiful and chaste Katrina, his nighttime fantasies invariably centered on the image of large, bold hands that knew exactly what to do to pleasure him. He'd never examined his dreams too closely, afraid of what he'd learn about himself. He preferred to dedicate his waking hours to the advancement of criminology and science, areas safely separate from his own personal needs and desires.

He'd enjoyed the Hessian's actions, as was made obvious by his quick climax. Ichabod flushed even now to remember it. He had hardly fought at all; he could not have won against the demon’s superior strength, but he should have put up more than token resistance. Anyone would think he'd wanted what the other offered…

"You are feeling better?"

Ichabod started, opening his eyes to find the Hessian standing over him. To his utter embarrassment, Ichabod realized he'd been caressing himself through his breeches as he relived the night before. The Hessian did not comment however, just went to empty a sack into the chest. He knelt to build up the fire, which Ichabod had neglected to do.

"Yes, much better," Ichabod managed to choke out. " Where did you go?"

"To visit Daredevil. And to find you something fresh to eat. Are you hungry?"

Ichabod was. He delved into the chest himself, returning to the mattress with a plate of warm bread, fruit, and cheese, probably stolen from someone’s pantry. As he ate he watched the other work, wishing he still saw him as nothing more than a malevolent specter.

"I cannot stay here," he stated finally. "I have a life in New York City."

The Hessian came to sit on the ground opposite him. "Tell me about it."

"My life?"

"This New York City. I remember a place by that name. It has grown?"

Describing his hometown was always fascinating, plus it delayed other discussions, so Ichabod did not hesitate. He talked about the City itself, his work there, and his hopes for the progress of his chosen career. That led to his development of evidence-gathering instruments, so be produced several of them from his bag, recounting their uses and relating cases where they'd already come in handy. The Hessian listened closely, seemingly interested in everything Ichabod said and showed him. It was gratifying in a way Ichabod had not experienced before. Even Katrina and young Masbath were less impressed by his inventions than by other modern conveniences of the new century.

"It sounds like a wondrous place," the Hessian concluded when Ichabod ran out of devices to display. "So much has changed since I died."

That jarred Ichabod's train of thought. He stared at the other for a moment, astonished to realize that he'd forgotten he was talking to a ghost. The Hessian looked somewhat dejected.

"I cannot stay here," Ichabod repeated softly.

"And I cannot go to the City." The man sighed, casting his eyes to the ground. In the silence, Ichabod shyly reached out to touch his cheek. It was cold, but otherwise felt like living flesh.

"I have never…" he hesitated when the other looked up. "Until last night, I had never lain with a man. It is not something I had ever considered.”

“It was good,” the other stated confidently. “For both of us.”

“It was unexpected.”

“You needed it.”

Ichabod couldn’t deny that. He ran his finger over the Hessian’s lips, incredulous at his own actions. “It… it will be difficult for me…"

The Hessian's smile blossomed suddenly, and even the deadly teeth couldn't detract from its brilliance. "I will not hurt you, Ichabod. This I promise."

Ichabod nodded, trembling a little. "I trust you… Gregor."

He let himself be undressed before lying back on the mattress. This time the Hessian stripped as well, and Ichabod nearly stopped breathing when he saw the man's body. He had always appeared huge; naked he loomed even larger, all firm muscle and hard angles, and Ichabod’s assumption that he bore many scars was correct. Ichabod almost changed his mind, until the man pulled him into his arms and he felt how cold his companion was.

"You are freezing!" he exclaimed, guiding Gregor's lips to his neck. "…Let me warm you."

The Hessian did not confine his kisses to Ichabod's throat, but although his mouth explored most of Ichabod's body, he never once drew blood. It was Ichabod who eventually initiated a kiss on the lips, but Gregor was careful not to expose his teeth. Instead his hands probed where his tongue could not, stirring feelings in Ichabod like he'd never known. His inhibitions forgotten, Ichabod caressed the other with equal passion. As his own warmth seeped into his partner, he urged them into position, the larger man on top, one strong leg spreading Ichabod’s thighs. He returned the favor, and together they began moving in a rhythm that grew in intensity until Ichabod shuddered and cried out his release. A few minutes later Gregor emulated him, then they both collapsed where they were, drained. Ichabod fell asleep with the Hessian's dark head on his shoulder.

 

He was alone when he awoke, and the sense of being buried alive hit him abruptly. Ichabod pulled his clothes on quickly, determined to find a way out of the chamber. He tried pounding on all four walls, seeking an opening on the other side; he tried prying apart the fireplace using a stout log; he even attempted to dig a passage in the ground, figuring that once beyond the cave’s perimeter, he could burrow upwards to daylight. All his efforts were useless. He was leaning against one wall, panting and telling himself it was from exertion rather than panic, when Gregor appeared before him. Ichabod gasped aloud.

“I did not mean to startle you,” the Hessian said at once. “Are you well?”

“Yes. Just frustrated by my captivity. How did you get in here?”

“The gateway under the Tree of the Dead.”

Ichabod had guessed that already. “I mean, how does it open?”

“I do not know. It opens only for the dead. When I approach it--”

He was suddenly lightheaded. “I am not dead… am I?”

“No!” The other sounded as shocked by that idea as Ichabod felt. “No, you passed through it with me. It will not open for you alone.”

Gregor dumped an armload of firewood in the corner, then returned to study Ichabod curiously. Still a bit disoriented, Ichabod did not bother with modesty: he hugged the man in sheer relief.

"Good morning," he said more steadily, then reconsidered his words. "Is it morning?"

"No, it is always night."

"I beg your pardon?"

Gregor shrugged. "For me it is always night. One of the side-effects of my bargain with the witch."

"Oh." Ichabod had to stop and think about that. He kept forgetting that magic was at work here. If it could allow a living person to breathe in a sealed underground cave, it could undoubtedly confine a dead person to eternal night. "I am sorry."

"It does not matter." The other did not look concerned about it. He'd placed both his hands on Ichabod's waist, thumb to thumb, as if measuring their size against the smaller man’s form. Once again they were icy cold, even through Ichabod’s clothing, but he knew they'd be warm soon. With a smile, he guided his partner to the mattress, lay back, and began generating heat enough for two.

 

He’d lost track of how many times they’d made love before Ichabod was forced to admit they were both in need of a wash. Gregor boiled water over the fire, but he was not as willing to use a cloth on himself as he was on Ichabod. In the end they washed each other, splashing water throughout the cave in the process.

"Cleanliness must be one of those customs that became popular after your death," Ichabod observed mildly while pouring a tankard of warm water over the other's head. Gregor snorted and shook his hair like a dog. "Thank you. I was not wet enough already."

"Cleanliness was not necessary to my profession," the Hessian explained, grabbing the container and refilling it quickly. He emptied its contents down Ichabod's chest, apparently just to watch it pool between his legs. Ichabod was starting to wonder whether they were going to end up filthier after this bath than they were before it.

"How did you become a mercenary?" he asked, partly to distract the other before they used up all the water playing. He still hated being left alone while his host went out to replenish it and their other provisions. If something were to happen to him, Ichabod would remain trapped underground to eventually starve, a fate he avoided contemplating in detail.

"I was a soldier," Gregor said shortly, turning to toss another log onto the fire. Thanks to his care, the cave had yet to grow cold. "It was all I knew. When there was no war in my land, I had to find one elsewhere."

"Did you enjoy killing?"

"I was good at it."

"They say you were one of the most ferocious butchers ever known in these parts."

"I was what I was."

"Why--"

The Hessian pressed his palm to Ichabod's lips. "You do not want to know," he said somberly, meeting his eyes. Where once his own were half-crazed, they were now piercing but sane. "I was hired to do a job. I did it with enthusiasm, and it led to my death. I have and will pay for my sins, but I will not apologize for what I was."

Ichabod nodded, indicating he wouldn't pursue the matter. He had no way to reconcile with his conscience what he was doing anyway, so doing it with a mercenary did not make much difference. In any case, Gregor could never be the fiend he'd been before, simply by virtue of being dead.

"Why the teeth?" Ichabod asked instead.

Gregor smiled, displaying his handiwork. "To strike terror in the hearts of those who thought they could best me. It did."

"It limits your other activities," Ichabod pointed out, then blushed when his mind immediately went to one such act.

"Until I found you, I was never interested in other activities," the Hessian stated. His hands, dry now and relatively warm, found their way to Ichabod's shoulders, massaging gently. Ichabod closed his eyes, the better to enjoy their touch. Blood-stained or not, they were fast becoming his favorite hands in the world.

 

The next time Ichabod awoke, he found Gregor thumbing through his journal by the faint light of a candle. The man frowned thoughtfully at each illustration, but quite obviously skipped the text.

“You cannot read English,” Ichabod observed in surprise. "German?"

“No.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to offer to teach the man, but he recalled their predicament in time. As long as Ichabod had another life awaiting him, he could make no promises.

“Your girl can read,” Gregor surmised, taking his usual seat on the ground near the mattress.

“Yes. She is even taking a course at the City Women’s College,” Ichabod added proudly. He’d been pleased that Katrina was interested in learning something more than charms and spells; he was just sorry she showed no aptitude for science.

“I remember her. She reeked of magic.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Some people carry it with them. And some attract it. You are one of those who attract it. White or black, it will seek you out.” The Hessian had narrowed his eyes as if he were looking deep into Ichabod’s soul. “You must guard yourself.”

Ichabod was momentarily at a loss for words. He’d wondered himself at the amount and frequency of the magic that touched his life. Surely it was not normal. “Katrina's power has grown. She watches over me.”

Gregor nodded. “Good.”

He didn’t say it aloud, but Ichabod realized he’d agreed to let his lover go. The question remained when.

 

_It was completely dark, darker than a moonless night, darker than a windowless cellar. Ichabod lay perfectly still…_

Until a strong arm crept around his waist and pulled him closer. Ichabod went willingly. It didn’t matter whether Gregor planned to initiate sex or simply cuddle; something about the Hessian drew Ichabod unfailingly to his side. Half-awake, Ichabod accepted that it had always been that way, from the moment he’d been sent to this remote village by his skeptical superiors, to his discovery of the true nature of the horseman’s crimes, to his return at Katrina’s behest. The forces of magic had been pulling and pushing them together for a reason, and it suddenly seemed irrational to fight it.

 

“How long have I been here?” he inquired over breakfast. He persisted in thinking of his first meal of each day by that name, despite never knowing the hour. Gregor was seated beside him, once again petting Ichabod as if he could not touch him enough. Fortunately Ichabod felt the same way.

“I do not know,” Gregor said candidly. “Time does not pass for the dead the way it does for the living.”

Another bit of unanticipated oddness that piqued Ichabod’s curiosity. He felt he should be taking notes. “Does it pass faster, or slower?”

“Just differently. I do not need to sleep, but I can sleep for months of your time. Or I can stay awake for months, perhaps years.”

Ichabod contemplated that for a moment. It occurred to him that the time distortion might extend to the chamber itself, since he honestly had no idea how long he'd been confined there. “You were first seen riding on All Hallows Eve, exactly a year to the day that you were thought to be laid to rest. How did you know the date?”

Gregor pulled him further into his arms. He was no longer ghoulishly cold; the more contact he had with Ichabod, the longer his body retained warmth. “I just knew. I will always just know.”

“Always?”

“After you are gone.”

"Gregor, you cannot keep terrorizing the populace." Ichabod insisted, guessing his intention. The citizens of Sleepy Hollow would not understand that their midnight marauder was simply acknowledging an anniversary. They would undoubtedly lock their doors in fright and call for help. With Ichabod's history, they would most likely call for him…

"Would you come?" the Hessian asked. "If I ride, will you come?"

Ichabod barely hesitated. “Yes… But I will not be able to stay.”

“It does not matter. As long as you come.”

“Just one night,” he stipulated. “Ride on All Hallows Eve, to afford me an excuse to come. After a year or two, I will arrive the day before, in anticipation of your appearance…” Ichabod noted the other’s smile and had to return it; he’d begun planning for repeated assignations without waiting for an invitation. “I will miss you.”

“And I you.”

Gregor took that as a cue to begin nuzzling his neck, their usual precursor to sex. Ichabod was not at all shy about returning his caresses, openly enjoying his partner’s size and strength, not to mention his masculine parts. He didn’t regret indulging this side of his nature, discovering his own sexual possibilities, because he suspected that with Katrina he never would have done so. Nor was he worried about containing it when he was with her. His fiancee inspired love, devotion, and an instinct to protect and make her happy; she didn’t provoke a degree of passion and lust that led him to goad and race his partner to climax, then collapse from the effort. Only a brooding horseman with enormous hands could do that.

As they sprawled together in satisfied exhaustion afterwards, Ichabod reflected on his promise. He meant to honor it, although he’d never be able to reveal it to Katrina. His life with her would fill his years, except for a single fortnight each autumn when his presence would be required in the Hollow. It would be a holiday of sorts, a break from science and the dictates of reason, because spending time with a spectral lover was as far from reason as Ichabod could imagine. It would remind him that many forms of magic existed in the world as well, more powerful at times than logic, and certainly more enticing.

“I will bring books,” he murmured drowsily, curling up alongside his companion. Gregor automatically enfolded him in his long arms. “I will teach you to read, so you will not be bored while I am gone.”

“All right.”

Ichabod drifted contentedly into sleep wondering where Magistrate Knickerbocker and the other villagers thought he’d been all this time…

 

That evening Ichabod awoke fully clothed outside the cave. He lay at the foot of the Tree of the Dead, a twisted and decayed trunk that served as menacing gatekeeper to the other realm. Gregor knelt beside him, while behind him Daredevil waited patiently.

“I can take you as far as the bridge,” Gregor offered when Ichabod opened his eyes in surprise. The latter had been half awaiting, half dreading the experience of passing through the cave’s walls. He hadn’t expected to sleep through it entirely. “Will you be safe from there?”

Ichabod nodded, rising to his feet. He dusted himself off, but there was really no help for his apparel: what once was black was now caked with brown mud. He looked like he’d spent a week in a grave. At least those who saw him wouldn’t doubt he’d spent all that time battling a demon. “Yes, I have friends among the spirits around here.”

The Hessian mounted first, then hoisted Ichabod up to sit in front of him. Daredevil seemed a bit startled, but he obeyed his master’s commands at once, carrying them at a canter towards the Hollow.

It was a cold night; evidently a frost had moved in during the indeterminate time that Ichabod had been away. He shivered, grateful when his companion wrapped both arms around him, but the ride was too short. In only ten minutes they were within sight of the covered bridge outside the village, and Ichabod had to relinquish his comfortable seat.

“I will be back,” he reiterated once he was on foot, just because his Hessian looked so morose. Gregor silently handed him down his bag. “Perhaps it will not seem so long to you.”

“Perhaps.” He turned Daredevil back towards the Western Woods, but his eyes did not leave Ichabod’s face. “Look after yourself. The night you do not come, I will ride until my bones scatter to the winds.”

“That will not be necessary. It is just a year to the day we meet again,” Ichabod swore. He reached up, and for a moment they clasped hands, sealing their pact once more. Then the Hessian galloped away without glancing back. Ichabod picked up his case, squared his shoulders, and crossed the bridge to what would pass for reality for the next twelve months of his life.


End file.
